


Ghosts That We Knew

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: Plagued by nightmares about his time in Kinloch Hold, Cullen decides to return to his home -- strengthened by Dorian and his own conviction -- to finally put his ghosts to rest.





	

**Part One**

    Memories broke over him like waves. 

Surging, receding, washing against his heart and eroding him like sand. One moment, he was safe with Dorian, holding him in his arms and listening to the softness of his breath, and the next, Cullen was locked in a cage, in the dark, hearing the screams of pain and death all around him.

    He knew where he was, immediately. There was no moment of frozen terror and panic where he was lost to confusion or uncertainty; he was in Kinloch Hold, imprisoned by magic and tortured by cruel, cold voices that whispered in his mind. He was back where he had spent his youth and began his service to the Maker. His lyrium leash slipped tight over his throat, pulling until he couldn’t breathe, and the demons laughed wildly in his head. 

    Outside of the dream, he knew that he was still safe in bed with Dorian curled against his side and the blankets in tangles around them, but all that mattered were the memories. Memories as sharp as knives, pressed to his heart. He knew what would happen next; the room would brighten, bright enough to sting his eyes and make him cry out in pain, and he would see the scattered bodies of his brothers and sisters, torn to pieces, strewn about the room. Gore would cover the floor, and he would look down at his hands and find them bloodied, find his stomach torn open and he would scream until the noise drove him mad and brought him into the real world, where the scream would be trapped behind his teeth and shake through his chest. 

Cullen had dreamed this all before, and he knew the routine. The memories were as terrifying as they were familiar -- though they had, of course, bled into dreams. Of course he hadn’t been torn open, and of course he hadn’t been soaked with blood, but for all intents and purposes, he may as well have been. He had lost everything that day. Not only his friends, but his innocence and his peace of mind.  
They had stolen everything from him. 

_No_ , a small voice insisted. _This is a lie. Everything here is a lie. Do not trust it. You survived this, you survived everything. You are safe now. You are loved._

But Dorian felt very far away, just then. He might as well have been on the other side of the world, hidden by miles and oceans. There, in his memories and his dreams, was the only place that existed, the only feelings that could be trusted. Fear, paranoia, dread, a grief so deep and dark that it eclipsed everything else. 

He had survived nothing. He was back in Kinloch Hold, suffering eternally, with claws dragging through his mind and tearing through his flesh and _Maker, there was so much blood---_

Cullen woke with a scream caught in his chest and rising to press against the back of his teeth. The sweat on him was cold, and a feverish chill gripped his body. For a long, agonizing moment, he was still in the cage, feeling the electricity spark under his bloody fingers; but then he was safe in his bed, with Dorian pressed against him and his soft breath tickling his jaw. Panicked, heart pounding and blood surging and stomach cold and twisted, Cullen somehow managed to untangle himself from his lover without disturbing him, and moved to the edge of the bed. 

The floor would be wet with blood. It was not a thought that seemed odd or out of place to him, but one that was an absolute _certainty_. The floor would be wet with blood and he would find himself encaged  once more.

    But the floor was dry, and Cullen relaxed. He took in deep, steadying breaths, and kept his eyes squeezed shut until he was sure that when they opened he would be safe in the dark of his room. 

    Memories clung to him, dragged from the dream and made almost physical as they sat heavy on his shoulders. Fleetingly, Cullen thought of turning to Dorian, of waking him and crawling like a child into the safe warmth of his arms, but he couldn’t bring himself to wake him. Dorian had enough to deal with without having to tend to Cullen’s old scars and all the haunted corners of his mind. 

    Still, as if summoned by his dark thoughts, Dorian was there. Cullen felt the weight of the bed shift as he moved. An arm wrapped around his middle, and soft lips pressed against the curve of his shoulder. A shiver moved down Cullen’s spine, pleasant considering everything he’d dreamed, and he managed a weak smile as Dorian nuzzled against him. 

    “Come back to bed, _amatus_ ,” Dorian urged, softly. He didn’t ask what had woken him, or why his body was slick and cold with sweat. He knew his dreams, he knew the sharp edges of them and how they caught and how they cut, and why should he dwell on them, and invite Cullen to keep cutting himself?

Cullen moved with him, settling in the warm circle of Dorian’s arms and resting his face against the hollow of his throat. His lips touched him, over his pulse, and Dorian held him tighter. 

    The man who had been trapped in that cage had been a different man. He had died there, in many ways, ruined by pain and loss and grief, hollowed by cruel words and cruel hands. Cullen had left him there, and become something else. And so why should he hold on, when who he had been had died there, when he was someone new?

    Because the cage had been carried with him, kept in his chest, around his heart, and he didn’t know how to open it, or how much more he could beat against it before his fists were broken and bloodied.

    Because it had been a hard death.

    And ghosts lingered. 

****

    To say that he was distracted was an understatement. 

    Or rather, he _wasn’t_ distracted, which was the problem. All that Cullen could think of were memories better left forgotten. Why, he wondered, should he concern himself with them _now_? He was Commander of the Inquisition, he was respected and valued and made tall by the hopes of those around him. He had Dorian, he had direction, he had _purpose_ , for the first time in over a decade, and so why _now_? 

    The reason, he knew, rested in his refusal to take lyrium. The leash wanted to be slipped around his neck, and he resisted and snarled and bit like a wild dog. 

    Cullen would not return to lyrium, no matter how haunted he might be, and no matter how desperately he craved the stuff. He had gotten himself through the worst of his withdrawal, with Dorian and his friends supporting him, and he would not undo all the work he had done, or all the faith that had been placed in him. 

    Distracted by his memories, _not_ distracting himself with the work that needed to be done, Cullen never even realized he wasn’t alone until a hand touched his shoulder and he jumped and guiltily looked over his shoulder. The noise he made wasn’t one a Commander should have -- something between a yelp and a whine -- and he flushed when he met Josephine’s eyes. 

    If she found any humor in his cry of alarm, she didn’t show it. There was only the briefest twitch of a smile at the corner of her eyes, before she was handing a rolled up bit of parchment to him. “You asked for the reports from this morning’s meeting,” Josephine said. “Since you did not attend and grace us with your presence.”

    Josephine was only teasing, gently, but Cullen winced. He was not prone to missing meetings, but after his night of poor sleep and his pounding headache and the vestiges of his dream still clinging to him, he had been in no disposition to being locked in a small room with the Inquisitor and Josephine and Leliana, no matter how fond he was of all of them. 

    “Thank you,” he said, taking the parchment and unrolling it across his desk. Nothing seemed to demand his immediate attention, and he let the parchment roll back up with a small sigh. Work would have been the perfect thing to keep his thoughts from drifting back to the cage and the dark and the cold feeling of being watched. “This seems like a job better suited to someone less... integral to the Inquisition, Ambassador Montilyet.”

    That was a polite way of saying it was grunt work, and Josephine knew it, judging by her smile. 

    “Oh, I’ve no doubt it is,” Josephine said. “But you see, I wanted to make sure that you were well. And I can see, looking at you, that you are not.”

    “Dorian asked you to check up on me,” Cullen said. He smiled, despite himself, and rested his head in his hands. “He thinks that I am a child that needs constant supervision.”

    “No, no,” Josephine soothed. “Well, _yes_ , Dorian did ask me to find out how you are. But not because he believes you are incapable of taking care of yourself. He cares for you, Cullen. _Commander_. And he was concerned that you might be... less forthcoming, with him. To protect him, I’m sure.”

    Maker, but Antivans could sweet talk themselves out of the worst messes. 

    Had it not been the truth, that he would hide his pain and his fear to keep Dorian’s shoulders and heart unburdened, Cullen might have been offended. As it stood, however, he _had_ kept himself closed off to his lover for fear that he might take responsibility in giving him peace. 

    “Tell Dorian that I’m fine,” Cullen said. “There’s no need for him to worry.”

    “You want me to lie to him,” Josephine said. “You’re not fine at all.”

    Cullen’s jaw clenched. “ _Josephine_.”

    “ _Cullen_ ,” Josephine challenged. “You are my friend, and I will do almost anything for you. But I will not lie for you.”

    How maddening! No one would leave him be or let him keep his head down and keep barreling forward. How frustrating, to be loved and cared for. 

    Cullen was not so mature that he couldn’t sulk about the situation he was in. 

    “What am I supposed to do?” Cullen asked, when he had pouted and sulked and it had gotten him nowhere.

    “Oh, I don’t know,” Josephine teased. “You could actually be _honest_ , with yourself and with Dorian. Or you could keep pretending you are fine and nothing is wrong and keep moving forward until you run out of room.”

    Of course she was right. Sooner or later, he would not be allowed the room to move any further. Sooner or later, what he ran from would catch up with him. And if he kept Dorian at arm’s length, it could be that when that time came, he no longer had a lover to help him. 

    He hated when she was right.

    Antivans were very skilled at gloating. 

****

    Cullen found Dorian sitting in his alcove, legs crossed and a book open on his knee. No doubt he knew that someone was standing there, but he remained engrossed in his book until Cullen cleared his throat. And then, of course, Dorian marked his place and looked up from the book expectantly, with one brow lifted and his lips curled into a smile. 

    How _smug_. 

    _Maker_ , he loved him. 

    “Yes, well, you needn’t be so... _gleeful_ about it,” Cullen murmured.

    “ _Gleeful_ ,” Dorian said. “Goodness, now what would I have to be gleeful about? Here my lover stands, so obviously miserable, and I am accused of taking _pleasure_ in it? If I were a more sensitive sort you might have hurt my feelings, _amatus_.”

    He licked his lips, unsure of what to say, or how to even start, but Dorian, surprisingly, made it easy on him. “You’ve been dreaming,” he said. “About what happened to you at the Circle. The dreams won’t leave you be, will they?”

    “No,” Cullen whispered. “I have tried to ignore them, to push them away, to keep them...” He sighed, breath trembling, and looked down at his feet, fists clenched at his side. “They will not leave me.”  
    Dorian stood, and Cullen kept himself still, kept his head turned down. He would not meet Dorian’s eyes and see the pity that rested there, or the smugness that he had been right and Cullen had been hiding from him like some kind of frightened child. 

    But Dorian touched him gently, taking his hands and untwisting the knots of his fists. His touch was soothing, like cool water, and Cullen sighed, this time with relief, his heart shuddering when Dorian touched his lips to his brow. 

    “There’s only one thing you can do,” Dorian whispered. Cullen was almost afraid to ask, but his curiosity got the better of him. 

    “You can go home,” Dorian answered.

    _Home._

    Even as the word made his blood run cold, it filled his heart with hope. 

 

**Part Two**

    He thought that returning to the place where he’d lived most of his childhood would be strange. It would feel surreal, dreamlike, and he would be forced to confront ghosts long before he was ready. But the moment he entered Honnleath, he felt nothing but the faintest stirrings of nostalgia and strangely, homesickness. That he thought of the place as home, when he had left at thirteen and not laid eyes on it since, surprised him. 

    Mia had taken refuge in Redcliffe during the Blight, but now that years had passed and things were -- relatively -- safe and settled, she had returned to Honnleath. 

    Strange, his eyes were drawn to the middle of the town as he crested the hill towards his old house with Dorian trailing behind him. Hadn’t there been a golem there, during his childhood? He could seem to recall climbing it as a boy and laughing as he swung from stone with his fingertips scrambling to stay gripped tightly. 

    What an odd thing to notice. 

    The memories here were kinder, softer, like slipping into a comfortable chair and drowsing by a familiar fire. Cullen remembered the smell of bread baking, his mother’s voice ringing through the house as she sang. He could remember his brother teaching him chess and flipping his lucky coin off the end of his thumb, and his baby sister crying while he held her in his arms. He could remember Mia’s smug grin as she bested him in nearly everything, and how they had competed and tried their best to one-up one another. And, faintly, he could remember the smell of his father’s cologne as he hugged him, the roughness of his beard as it scratched his cheek. 

    Bittersweetness welled in his chest and rose up his throat. Cullen swallowed, wiping at his eyes as he crested the hill at last and saw his sister waiting for him. Mia was older, of course, a woman now with lines at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. But one look at her, and she was the girl she had been when they’d been small. Her hair was blonde and curly and fell over her shoulders, and her eyes were warm amber, shining with more love than he knew what to do with. 

    “Cullen,” she said, when he was standing in front of her and holding her hands. She looked up at him, but he felt smaller than he had in many years. When she hugged him, he went into her arms stiffly at first, unsure whether too much time had passed, whether too much had changed him, reshaped him into a man his sister might not even recognize. After a moment, though, he yielded in her arms, and wrapped his own around her middle, picking her up and spinning her as she laughed.

    When he set her down, she was breathless, and flushed, and tears were on her face. And on his, too, he realized, as Mia cleared them away with her thumbs. 

    “I’ve missed you so much,” Mia said. “Did you forget how to write when you became a templar?”

    “ _Mia_.”

    “You made my letters chase you all across Thedas,” Mia reprimanded. “Blighted fool, all you had to do was let me know you were---”

    “ _Mia_ ,” Cullen interrupted, again, flushing guiltily. He stepped aside and let her see that they weren’t alone. “We have company. Perhaps you can chew me out later?”

    He knew that Dorian was nervous. The entire trip he had been wringing his hands and had taken very little food; no doubt he expected Mia wouldn’t like him and he would be a pariah all over again. Despite his protests to the contrary, Dorian was very concerned with what people thought of him. And so, it was likely a great relief when Mia smiled at him warmly, and reached out her hands to him. “You must be Dorian,” she said, squeezing his fingers when Dorian took her hands. “My brother has told me all about you -- from the few letters he actually managed to send. I’m happy to meet you.”

    “Yes,” Dorian said, quite noticeably dumbstruck by her warmth and hospitality. Cullen could almost read his mind -- he was obviously thinking how _odd_ Southerners were with their kindness. He couldn’t help but chuckle, hiding his smile behind his hand when Dorian turned his eyes irritably to him. “Ah, thank you. I had no idea Cullen had mentioned me. I trust everything he said was flattering?”

    “Oh, very,” Mia laughed. “He’s very sweet on you.”

    “ _Mia_ ,” Cullen groaned. “Maker’s breath.”

    Mia and Dorian laughed together as Cullen turned red and glowered at them. Just what he needed, _two_ people who were intent on embarrassing him. 

****

    His sister had married while she’d lived in Redcliffe, and her husband was a pleasant, soft spoken man with a mustache almost as impressive as Dorian’s. Cullen liked him immediately, and was rather surprised that he hadn’t reserved harsher judgment of him. He’d assumed that any men who married his sister’s would never live up to his high standards for them, but the man -- Bennett -- was kind and doted on Mia quite happily and openly. 

    Rosalie -- his youngest sister -- lived with them on their farm. Cullen hadn’t expected to find her there, and he broke into a grin when he spotted her. She’d been young when he’d left for the templars, barely more than a baby, and he feared that she wouldn’t remember him. But she squealed when she saw him and rushed to his arms and giggled when he spun her around and planted a kiss on her cheek. When he pulled back from her, she was not as young as he thought, not as small as he remembered; she was a teenage girl, nearly a woman, and Cullen couldn’t seem to separate her from the little toddler that had tugged at his sleeve and tottered after him everywhere. 

    If he expected a big, emotional reunion, he was disappointed when Rosalie spotted Dorian and gravitated over to him. Apparently not shy, Rosalie asked him for his name and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening sitting beside him and hanging on his every word. There was a high blush on her face, and the look in her eyes was one that Cullen had worn many times, he was sure. 

    That night, as he and Dorian crawled into bed together, Dorian laughed about his sister and her sudden affection towards him. “Apparently I have a very unique power over the Rutherford clan,” he laughed. “I must use this power for good.”

    Cullen smiled, pulling Dorian back against his body and peppering his throat with soft, small, very _warm_ kisses. “You have power over everyone,” he whispered. “You’re so breathtakingly beautiful.”

    “Oh,” Dorian purred, smirking as Cullen’s lips pressed with a bit more insistence against the curve of his shoulder. “Is that right? Tell me more about how beautiful I am, >em>Commander. I am never too tired to have my ego stroked.”

    “I could stroke more than that if you’d come to bed with less blighted _clothing_ ,” Cullen fussed, kissing Dorian’s ear and leaning up onto his elbow behind him. When Dorian turned, most likely to scold him for making such a _filthy joke_ in his sister’s home, Cullen kissed his mouth hard enough to shock a whine from him.

    He wasn’t sure why he was so suddenly and maddeningly _desperate_ for him, but he knew it had something to do with the unflappable loyalty Dorian had shown when he’d wanted to come with him to a place that had never been his home. Dorian had promised him that they would put to rest all that haunted him, all that rattled their chains in the depths of his heart and his mind. And that kind of devotion, of unconditional love, lit a fire in Cullen that nothing could ever extinguish.

    All he wanted was to be so close to him that he no longer knew they were of separate bodies. All he wanted was to be so close that they were the same flesh and blood and bone, and when he kissed Dorian and when Dorian’s nails curled into his shoulders and his thighs slipped over Cullen’s hips, he knew that it was what Dorian wanted too.

    “What did I do to deserve you?” Cullen asked, after, panting as he settled against Dorian’s slick throat and kissed over his racing pulse.

    “I’m not sure, _amatus_ ,” Dorian whispered, wrapping his arms around Cullen’s shoulders. “But I’m very glad you do.”

****

    All the warmth that he’d felt when returning to Honnleath faded as he and Dorian set out on the road to Lake Calenhad. 

    The further he got from his family, and the closer he came to the tower where he had spent so many years and where he had lost so much of his youth and innocence and comfort, the less determined he became. He’d hoped that by stopping by to see his family, his courage might have been bolstered, and he might find deep reserves of bravery to confront the demons and the ghosts that he had to confront. 

    But instead, he felt cold. He watched the road from their carriage and with every mile that disappeared behind them, the chill only sunk deeper, until even his bones felt frozen. 

    Dorian reached out and took his hand when the driver announced they were nearing the lake. Cullen squeezed his hand, tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. If Dorian minded, he never showed it, rubbing his thumb soothingly across Cullen’s knuckles and giving him the most encouraging smile that he could. Here he was, a free mage who had never known the severity of the Circle, about to step into one for the first time in his life, and _he_ was the one comforting _Cullen_. Even if Kinloch Hold operated differently beneath the rule of Queen Gwendolyn and King Alistair, it was probably still a daunting and intimidating structure for Dorian to see. 

    “It’s alright,” Dorian whispered to him. “Nothing here can hurt you any longer, _amatus_.”

    Cullen prayed that he was right. 

****

    Greagoir and Irving were both gone. 

    Irving had passed not long after the Blight had been ended, and Greagoir had left when Queen Gwendolyn had ordered the Circles be made into schools to educate, not subjugate, mages. He had bristled at the idea that templars were no longer needed, at least not in the capacity that he believed they _should_ have been, and he had stepped down and disappeared somewhere. Cullen hoped that he was well, or at least at peace. It seemed impossible after what they had seen and experienced and lived through, but he hoped for him all the same. 

    The place seemed colder without the both of them. It seemed alien as he walked the halls that he had once walked every day. The mages looked at him curiously, but they didn’t seem frightened by his presence. The First Enchanter met with him and agreed to let him walk the Circle freely, though she seemed a fair bit more distrustful of him and his motives. After all, the children that watched him had never known a Circle the way that the woman who taught them and protected them had; she had seen the brutality of templars, and no doubt she regarded him as one even if his armor was different and lyrium no longer sang in his veins. 

    He held nothing against her.

    In many ways, he was still the same templar that he had been. And that was not, despite what his heart would lead him to believe, a bad thing. 

    “Charming place,” Dorian said, as they walked hand in hand down the spiralling hallways and peeked in at the rooms. They were mostly empty now, some of them long ago abandoned and never reinhabited or even dusted and opened up to the sun. 

    There were shadows everywhere, spreading like ink over the floor and crawling like ivy up the walls. Normally, Cullen wouldn’t have even noticed such a thing, but he was on edge, and everything was fraying his nerves. What might be hiding in the shadows, reaching for him? What might be there, crouched behind the heavy drapes, waiting to sink claws and teeth into him?

    He was trembling, and his heart was starting to pound. Cullen swallowed, and the instant he nearly succumbed to panic, Dorian squeezed his fingers and grounded him. Cullen looked to him, and found sanity and comfort and peace in his silver eyes. He sighed, shakily, and squeezed Dorian’s fingers back, a silent affirmation that, _yes, he was fine_ , and, _yes, he wanted to keep going._

    There was no want, however. 

    He _needed_ to keep going. 

    ****

    Entering the room where he’d been caged was the most difficult thing he’d ever done. Cullen thought that he would never be there again, amidst the old memories and lingering ghosts that had haunted him for so long; but there he was, striding through the door with his shoulders squared and his back straight and his heart beating hard and fast. 

    His vision greyed at the edges, and the grey threaded over his eyes like spiderwebs. He felt himself swoon, sure that he would collapse to the ground and be dragged down into the dark to be some demon’s personal plaything, but Dorian caught his arm and held him steady. Cullen looked up as he sagged down onto his knees, feeling Dorian’s nails biting into the meat of his arm. He remained everything solid and safe and _sane_ in the world, and Cullen gratefully turned his face against Dorian’s palm and let the warmth of his touch cut through the chill of the room around them. 

    Nothing was there. On the surface of his mind, he knew that. If it seemed that the shadows reached for him, that the place had become _charged_ when he’d entered, that was only in his imagination. Terrible things had happened there, yes; to him and to others. The place had been a tomb for many of his friends and the mages they had sworn to protect, but there was nothing lingering now but bad memories. 

    _To ensure this horror is ended... you must kill everyone up there._

    Cullen winced at the sound of his own voice echoing through, what he thought, was his own mind. But when Dorian looked at him in confusion, he knew that he’d heard it too. 

    _Something_ remained. Something more than a memory. 

    “It means to kill me,” Cullen whispered, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. He clutched at Dorian, hid his face against his hip as soothing fingers combed through his hair. “It will not be satisfied until I’m dead. It’s _hungry_ , can’t you feel it?”

    “I feel _something_ ,” Dorian agreed. “But nothing hungry or dangerous. It feels more like---”

    _Maker turn his gaze on you. I hope your compassion hasn’t doomed us all._

    The words stung, and Cullen whined against Dorian’s hip at the caustic sound of his own voice. He’d been so angry, so hurt, so _consumed_ with fear and terror and grief and _rage_ , and he didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to think of all that he’d endured and the man that his anger and his distrust had turned him into. Maker, he was so tired, so worn out, all that he wanted now was peace. 

    “A spirit,” Dorian said. A little breathlessly, Cullen thought. Most likely he was excited to see a spirit, even if the thought of one being there with them filled Cullen with cold dread. When he attempted to move away, Cullen gripped onto his leg tightly, refusing to let go of him. What could he hope to accomplish by approaching such a creature? It was a place of pain and hurt and regret and dark, bloody, _shadowy_ things. Why did Dorian want to go any further?

    “Cullen,” Dorian whispered, settling his hand at the nape of his neck. “You wanted to come and set things right, didn’t you? A bit difficult to do that on the floor, _amatus_.”

    He teased, but there was an appeal in the words, urging him to find his feet. Mustering every ounce of energy and courage he had, Cullen stood, though he trained his eyes on the floor and refused to look up and search for the spirit Dorian had seen. 

    “It’s an echo,” Dorian said.

    “A _what_?” Cullen asked. 

    “An echo,” Dorian said. “A spirit that is drawn to places where magic is strong and the veil is thin. It resonates with the energy of whatever moment it is drawn into. No doubt it came through when you were trapped here.” His fingers curled under Cullen’s chin, forcing his eyes to meet his own. “It’s been waiting for _you_. You drew it here.”

    “I never wanted the blighted thing,” Cullen snapped. “What in the name of Andraste am I supposed to _do_ with it?”

    “It’s an echo of what you felt,” Dorian said. “It’s trapped because you could never let go. This is what you came here to do, Cullen.”

    “I came here to make peace,” Cullen said. “For me, not for some damned _spirit_.”

    “You came here to let go,” Dorian said. “So... let go.”

    He stepped aside. Cullen resisted the urge to grab him and keep him close, to make him a safe and solid barrier between himself and everything that wanted to hurt him. Dorian was his safe haven, his harbor in a terrible storm, but he knew that this was something he had to do for himself. If he turned back now, if he refused to lay bare everything that had hurt him and shaped him and shout into the void that it was done, that it was over, that he would not be hounded and tormented by the things that had nearly broken him, then it would never end. 

    Memories would beat against him as ceaselessly as the tide did the sand, and he would be worn away. 

    He would be eroded into nothing. 

    The spirit was nothing but a wisp, bouncing around the room, flittering and flickering. There was nothing threatening or imposing about it, but Cullen still brought dread with him, heavy in his chest, and chills raced up and down his spine. Without thinking, he reached back, perhaps only to see if Dorian was still there or if he had been only a figment of his imagination this whole time. The room had played tricks on him when he’d been trapped there, after all, conjuring up kind faces only to have them disappear in a whiff of smoke. 

    Dorian took his hand and squeezed his fingers. Cullen exhaled, breath trembling, and stepped away from the touch with more confidence that he would be there when he returned.

    As he neared, the wisp stopped, glowing and dimming and pulsing brightly when Cullen stopped before it. 

    _Kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they’ve done._

    Cullen flinched.

    _Sometimes terrible things must be done to protect the greater good._

    He could feel the anger, the grief, the all encompassing _terror_ that had filled him when he’d snapped the words the spirit echoed. For a moment, a long, agonizing moment, he was swallowed up by it; he was returned to when he’d been caged and tortured and left for dead. He could see his friends as they’d been torn to pieces, could hear their screams, could feel the blood, hot and slick, against his face and on his hands as he’d held his brothers---

    “No,” Cullen said. He did not speak roughly, or loudly, or angrily; he spoke quietly, calmly, _kindly_. He sensed in the spirit confusion, and when he reached out the wisp swirled around his fingers as if wondering why he felt so different, why his blood did not pound with rage but beat slow and steady through him. 

    _You know nothing! I am thinking about the future of the Circle. Of Ferelden._

    “They’ve survived,” Cullen said. “They’ve changed. Things _have_ to change if they are to survive.” He turned his hand, and shivered as the wisp rested against his palm. “I have survived too,” he continued. “And I’ve changed.”

    The cage had been broken long before. That he had built it around his own heart was not the fault of this place, or the little creature in the palm of his hand. Change had come, slowly, painfully, against great resistance. It had come all the same.

    And it was time to let go.

    “It’s over,” Cullen said. “It’s done. Nothing here can hurt me any longer.”

    He thought that the wisp might linger, still, that his anger and his hurt and his fear had been too strong to ever let the creature leave, but after a moment it flared brightly and then faded away. The room seemed to lose whatever power it had held when the spirit was gone, becoming nothing but an old room with old shadows and dust hanging in the air. 

    If it would ever be that in his heart, Cullen didn’t know. But he would shut the door to it, as best he could.

    Fingers slid through his and he looked down into Dorian’s eyes. Dorian, who had given him a home, who had reminded him of the depths of his own heart and that his fingers were good for more than gripping the hilt of a sword. They fit nicely in his hand, curled against the shape of his knuckles, and when Dorian smiled, Cullen kissed the corner of his mouth and tugged him towards the doorway.  
    “Let’s go home,” he said, without looking back over his shoulder at the little room that had nearly undone him.

    Let any ghosts that still lingered have the place.

    Cullen did not carry it with him.

**Author's Note:**

> written for a dragon age big bang that never really panned out with my artist, but I still am really proud of this story, so i'm posting it up! :)


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